“Whispers at dawn?” she murmured as she made her way toward the horsehair trunk.
“What about these?” She held the box of keepsakes from the big trunk up for her uncle’s inspection.
“What?” He stared.
“These? Letters? Pictures?”
He made a wry face. “Baby books, maybe. Who would buy these? Throw them in the alley. Black children live in the next street. They carry them off.”
“But look! Here is the croix de guerre. Some brave fellow fought to win that,” she protested.
“Yes! But did he keep it? No! Let some black boy wear it.”
“Then I may keep them? All these?”
“If you wish.”
She rewarded him with a smile. After the evening meal she would read the stories recorded here and she would explore the little horsehair trunk.